The Seven Unwritten Rules of Meeting Your New Neighbors

Three weeks ago, without warning, the house across the street vanished. Not literally, of course, but close enough—the neighbors, a quiet pair who had spent years keeping to themselves and tolerating my dogs with a kind of passive, upper-middle-class grace, vanished in the space of a Tuesday morning. One minute they were discussing HOA water politics like they had skin in the game, and the next a moving truck rolled up like a surgical strike, erasing them in under three hours. When she reappeared later for a final sweep, the former neighbor tossed out a vague explanation about “changing circumstances” and the merits of a spot a few miles east, then disappeared for good. A tidy, silent retreat.

Fast forward to yesterday morning, day one of the open house. The suburban version of a stakeout: me, in a pair of questionably laundered shorts, camped out in my garage, sipping coffee and pretending not to study the fresh meat parading through the meticulously-staged home across the street. I watched the whole thing unfold like it was an episode of Dateline: Cul-de-Sac Confidential. A smarmy realtor in a tight knit polo rolled in from downtown San Diego, underpriced the place by a cool $300K, and hosted a “neighbors-only” open house that turned out to be more of a free-for-all for the slack-jawed busybodies and the decor-starved locals. I stayed put. I know a trap when I see one. Hors d’oeuvres and cheap wine can’t hide the fact that what they’re really selling is surveillance. Your neighbors, rooting through your spice rack while judging your drapes. Savages. Every one of them.

And now we wait. New neighbors are coming—it’s inevitable. Could be the wide-eyed couple with the impossibly cute kid, eyeballing my dogs with curiosity and hope. Could be the guy with the venomous BMW and perma-sneer. Whoever they are, I’m ready. Plant in hand. Dogs semi-contained. Smile preloaded. But I’ve been thinking: what are the unwritten rules of meeting the people who will now have a front-row seat to your daily spiral? What’s the playbook for saying “Hi, I live here too, and I hope to God you don’t play the bongos”? Let’s break it down. Seven rules. Funny, sharp, and just grounded enough in reality to keep you from setting the welcome mat on fire.

1. Don’t Be the Real Estate Stalker

They’re not even moved in yet and you’re already clocking license plates and counting how many times they open the car door. Calm down, Hoover. It’s fine to peek through the blinds once or twice—after all, these people could be human leaf blowers or karaoke enthusiasts—but don’t loiter in your robe pretending to water rocks just to catch a glimpse. The goal is to be neighborly, not Nick Nolte with a clipboard. Let them arrive. Let them breathe. Then commence your covert ops with some dignity.

2. No Gift Baskets Full of Homework

A small plant, a bottle of wine, or a batch of cookies is a welcome mat. A folder of HOA regulations, your dog’s medical history, and a Yelp-style review of every house on the block is a cry for help. Keep it simple. Keep it warm. Unless they ask, do not include a laminated diagram of the trash pickup schedule, your dietary restrictions, or the previous owner’s sins. You’re offering an icebreaker, not onboarding them for a job at Lockheed Martin.

3. Let Them Ask First—Then Unload Your Baggage

They will ask about the neighborhood. Resist the urge to answer like a traumatized war vet. “Well, the guy three doors down builds flamethrowers and screams at crows, and the woman next to him is allergic to Wi-Fi.” Start with the good stuff—quiet evenings, friendly mail carriers, great coffee down road. Save the horror stories for round two, or at least until they’ve fully unpacked. Give them time to fall in love before you tell them the place has ghosts.

4. For the Love of God, Don’t Ask What They Paid

It’s not only rude—it’s psychotic. This is their home now, not a ticker symbol. If you must know, you can do what the rest of us do: creep Zillow like a normal person at 2 a.m. while eating shredded cheese from the bag. Asking a brand-new neighbor what they paid for their house is the social equivalent of licking their doorknob. Just don’t. Fun fact: this made the list because on literally my first day here, a leering, chuckle-headed neighbor down the street rolled up on a bicycle—his two kids walking beside him—and asked me point blank what I paid. Having rocketed into peak absurdity, I answered in kind: “I have no idea,” then walked away, leaving him slack-jawed and bereft.

5. Show Them You’re Chill—But Not Too Chill

Yes, you want them to know that you’re low-maintenance, friendly, and unbothered. But “unbothered” doesn’t mean you stand outside shirtless drinking a tallboy at 9 a.m. and shouting, “Welcome to the jungle!” when they pull in. You’re not auditioning for a reboot of The ‘Burbs. Smile. Wave. Offer help if they look like they’re about to throw out their back lifting an armoire. Then go back inside like a normal person. Let them absorb your quiet competence. Mystery builds rapport.

6. Don’t Weaponize Your Dogs

Yes, your dogs are adorable. Yes, you want your neighbors to love them. But leading with a three-dog flash mob at full bark is not the vibe. Give the newcomers a second to figure out where their own backyard is before springing your furry welcome committee on them like a barking SWAT team. Mention them casually. “Hey, I’ve got three dogs—if they ever make a racket, just let me know.” Now you’re the conscientious, self-aware pet owner. Not the guy with a wolf pack and a God complex.

7. Save the Absurdity for Act III

You’ve been friendly. You’ve been respectful. You’ve established a baseline of neighborly normalcy. Now, and only now, can you unleash the wild card. Whether it’s inviting them to listen to freshly-cut demos from your one-man black metal solo projedt, or offering unsolicited information about the haunted doll buried in your yard, the absurdity works because it’s built on trust. Start weird, and you’re the street lunatic. End weird, and you’re the neighborhood legend. It’s a fine line—but if you ride it right, you’ll never have to rake your own leaves again.